


The River Runs

by Ori_Cat



Category: Relic Master Series - Catherine Fisher
Genre: Cat's Cradle has mystical powers, F/M, Human Sacrifice, The Sekoi (race), well sacrifice at any rate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 04:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ori_Cat/pseuds/Ori_Cat
Summary: The stories of Anarax, Sekoi culture hero - but mostly, of his wife Lorun.





	1. Chapter 1

The mace shattered stone to her left, but she hardly noticed a flying splinter sting her cheek. A night and a day she had spent on the rock, dodging its blows, slipping from sea-cave to sea-cave at the base to gain time to rest and breathe. One time she’d been able to hide for a whole sun-hand’s-breadth. But the god would tear the rock apart rather than leave Lorun her life, so she’d been forced out each time to try and drive it off. Just her and the ceremonial broken sword. 

She could give in. All her limbs felt like water now, and she feared if she went into the sea again she would simply dissolve. It snarled and stretched out a hand towards her, and though she hacked at its fingers with the sword-hilt until the blood ran yellow onto the stone it kept reaching and caught the edge of her tunic- 

\- and let go. She staggered in relief and surprise and looked up to see the god swiping at something near its faces. A black speck circled away, dodged a poorly-aimed blow of the mace, and darted back towards the god. It screamed and clawed at its face, and while it was distracted the speck descended and landed in front of her, and became a black night-cat - a winged cat! - and a man, who lowered a gleaming sword and stretched out a hand to her. 

“Come with me,” he said. 

She’d stepped back before she could think about it. Never trust, the people of Zenath were told. Zenath was always alone. Zenath did not suffer strangers. 

But behind him she saw the god turn towards them again, blood streaming from its face, and terror overwrote her thoughts, and she reached out and gripped his wrist. He hauled her onto the cat’s back behind him and called something that was lost in the god’s roar and the rush of the cat’s wings as it sprang into the sky. And the rock and the sea and the god’s anger and her sparkling city were all lost below them so quickly. The wind was stronger this high, and with the hand that wasn’t still wrapped around her sword she grabbed a chunk of the cat’s fur - she still wasn’t quite certain about touching her rescuer more than necessary. 

He pushed the cat down, towards the forest south of the city, let it circle once and touched it down in a small gap between the trees. It was much darker in the forest, the setting sunlight almost completely obscured by the trees. 

As soon as the cat’s paws touched the ground, Lorun swung off and took three steps away from him, raising the broken sword-hilt. He didn’t seem to notice, sheathing his sword and then picking up each of the cat’s paws to see if it had scraped them on the splintered rocks, stroking its haunches and the base of its wings, speaking all the while as one talks to children. It was only when the cat turned and bumped his hand with its head, as though affirming that yes, it was fine, did he look up again. 

“Who are you? And why did you help me?” she demanded. 

“My name is Anarax,” he responded to the first question. Now that they weren’t in the middle of the fight, she could look at him better. His fur was almost as black as his cat’s, shading to grey on his hands and face. She didn’t recognize the tribemark. 

The glade where they had landed was centered around two large flat stones resting together making an L shape. She would have thought it was a fallen cromlech but for it was the wrong type of stone. Cromlech were always made of the hard crystalline stone, not the smooth flaky type. The ground was covered with ferns and moss and some prickly vine-like plant with tiny, yellowish gourds growing from it. 

“You still didn’t answer my second question,” she said. 

He shrugged slowly. “It looked like you needed it. Was that not true?” 

She had to admit that it was. 

“Shall I return you?” he asked. “To your city?” 

“Zenath,” she corrected automatically. And she would have said yes, to leave her there and be gone, but- 

-they had left her. Chosen her to be their sin-holder, their scapegoat. They had decided they did not want her. 

She would not want them back. 

“No. Not yet.” 

He nodded, completely unperturbed, and continued gathering wood into the angle of the stones. The night-cat padded up and sniffed Lorun’s hand softly. Despite herself, she gave it a gentle scratch on the head, and it responded by rubbing so enthusiastically against her she had to take a step sideways. 

“Ira, stop that.” She could swear the cat looked chastened after he said it. “Sorry, she does that.” 

“It’s all right,” she said. “I encouraged her.” She went and sat down on the furthest edge of one of the flat stones - it was closer to him, but she didn’t really mind so much - and patted her knee. Immediately, Ira loped over and propped her chin on Lorun’s lap. She closed her eyes blissfully as Lorun rubbed the soft fur behind her ears. Her father’s house had had two domesticated night-cats, and she and her younger sisters had adored playing with them and snuggling with them on cold nights. It hadn’t been an unusual occurrence for Lorun to wake up with a younger sister and a cat having come and lain on her for warmth. “I’ve never seen any winged cats before.” 

“There are none. Only her.” Anarax paused in the middle of lighting the fire, glanced back, and saw what she was doing. “Be careful; she’ll drool all over you if you let her.” 

It was so much the oddest warning, she had to laugh. Ira seemed now half-asleep on her and was purring contentedly, though, so she didn’t have the heart to push her away. 

Anarax sliced some of the gourds in half and poked them into the edges of the fire, and sat down on the other edge of the stones. For a long while neither of them said anything. She continued stroking Ira; he laced his fingers together in varying patterns. 

“There was rope,” he said finally. There was no inflection to it, and yet she could hear the question behind it; he recognized that she had been bound and wanted to know why. 

So she told him about the tribute, that the sea god came every year on the balance-day-to-dark to take one of Zenath’s children down with it into the sea. The broken sword was only symbolic; nobody could actually fight with a broken sword. Nobody knew, anymore, what would happen if tribute was not given, only that it would be something terrible. Something awful visited on her city, her father and sisters- 

She broke off with a whimper. How could she have left them? She had saved herself, but it would revenge itself on all her loved ones - her beautiful city - if it hadn’t already. All because she left her place as tribute. Because she didn’t want to be their sacrifice. 

Ira, picking up her sorrow, lifted her head and whined at her. She pushed the cat away and hugged her knees. Oh, her city, her people… 

Anarax handed her a gourd half. She hardly noticed it burning her fingers. Thankfully, he didn’t try to talk or comfort her in any other way. Just sat there and waited. 

Eventually, when she had calmed down and nibbled all of the gourd, he asked, “Should I go back and check?” 

She shook her head firmly. Zenath did not suffer strangers. If her people were not gone, they would kill him as soon as they saw him. The only reason she hadn’t, so far, was because it would be terribly ungrateful. And if her people were gone, there was no use. 

“If we went up, we might at least be able to see,” he offered. Well, if he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, she didn’t want the uncertainty. At least she would know whether to mourn or not. 

He took barely a sliver of sun-time before landing Ira again. “There’s just water and starlight. I couldn’t see anything else.” 

Her people could still have escaped through the north pass. Some of them, at least; there wouldn’t have been time for them all to flee the god’s anger. Hopefully her father and sisters were among them. 

She could go to the north pass, find anybody who still lived, and join them again. She could. But she was their Tribute, and she doubted they would take back the woman who should be dead. Zenath did not suffer strangers. And she did not suffer those who condemned her. But what would she do now? 

“You could come back with me.” She hadn’t realized she said it out loud until he answered, still hesitantly, like the offer might be taken wrong. 

“Where?” 

“My home is two days south on Ira. You don’t have to stay, just it might be a better starting-off point than this - I sort of don’t really want to just leave you here…” 

Did she trust him? No, not really. Saving her wasn’t enough to earn her continued trust. 

Did she have any better options? No, not really. 

She’d always been able to guess her future, she thought later, when the fire was burned down to a dull glow and the man Anarax curled up asleep on the other side of the stone. Always been able to at least see the few possible paths it could take. But now it felt like she was stumbling blindly forwards, and she was afraid of every step in case it was the one that would make her fall. Not even Ira’s warm purring against her back could take that feeling away. 

Her father had always said that the best way to find out what was going to happen was to let it happen. Somehow, she wasn’t sure this was quite what he had meant.


	2. Chapter 2

His village only appeared to have one street down the centre. All the houses were built of dun stone, with only lintels and doors wooden. Although, if it was always this windy here, there was probably good reason for that. 

The wind also probably explained why there was nobody outside. Anyone would want to be curled up inside their house on a day like this. 

Anarax led her and Ira about five-sevenths of the way down the street - at one point she heard giggling off to her right and looked over to see two girls, silhouetted in an open byre, twining loops of cord between their hands - before he turned right in front of a house that looked like any other and rapped on the door. 

A grey woman poked her head out. “You’re late,” she summarily told Anarax, then looked around him at Lorun. “And who’s this?” 

Anarax rolled his eyes. “Anaren, Lorun. Lorun, this is Anaren. She’s my sister.” 

The woman Anaren reached around Anarax and guided Lorun out by the shoulder to get a better look at her. “Where’s you find her, then?” She gave her brother a look anybody could’ve interpreted. It was plain she thought Anarax had taken Lorun hoping for a mate. 

He rolled his eyes back at her. “It’s not like that, Anaren,” he said. If Lorun had had any lingering doubt that they were siblings it evaporated. “Look, can I kind of drop her off with you for a bit? I need to put Ira away and see Kaelin and… maybe you can lend her some clothes or something…?” 

Lorun looked down at herself self-consciously. She had been too interested in the new village to think that she was still wearing her blood-stained and torn Tribute clothes. 

“Of course I can, brother mine,” Anaren reassured him with exaggerated sweetness. She took Lorun’s arm again and led her firmly through the door. “Come with me,” she told her. 

“Don’t intimidate her too much!” Anarax called after them. 

Anaren hauled her through what looked like a workshop into a delightfully warm back room, pushed her firmly down onto a bench, and began dragging clothes from a carven chest. “Here.” She shoved a red tunic at Lorun. “I’ll find you some leggings…” 

Lorun pulled off her old tunic and donned Anaren’s while the woman had her back turned. It smelled good; she held one sleeve to her nose and breathed deeply. “Why does it smell so good?” 

Anaren patted the chest lid. “Calarna. I know, it’s lovely.” 

The leggings were a different red, and ever so slightly too long, so she had to roll up the waist. She was reminded of her festival clothes back home. In Zenath, nobody wore bright colours except at festivals. 

Anaren proclaimed that her shoes would no doubt be too small for Lorun, so she put her old boots back on. Now was as good a time as any to ask her questions, she supposed. Anarax had told his sister to take care of her, after all. “Anaren? This might be a really dumb question…” 

The woman cocked an eyebrow at her. “Well if you don’t ask, we’ll never know, will we?” 

“Your brother… always does, sort of, handshapes. When he has nothing else to do with them, I think.” She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. 

“Ah, well, ‘Rax is an inveterate fidget anyway,” Anaren butted in. 

“But,” Lorun continued, “I saw some children outside doing the same thing, but with cord. Like, making patterns. Does that - what is that?” 

“Oh, that’s Caul,” Anaren answered. “You don’t know it?” 

Lorun shook her head. Nobody had ever done anything like that in Zenath. “Does it mean anything?” 

“It’s just a game, really. Glorified name and all, but I’ve never heard of it being serious. If you want to learn - well, I was always a bit fumble-fingered, but go ask Sorxarae. She can do some very intricate patterns.” Seeing Lorun’s blank look, she explained. “Sorxarae is a little hard to explain. She’s like everyone’s twice-mother. You really should meet her, she’s a lovely woman.” 

Lorun nodded, less out of agreement and more out of not having a better response. But the other woman seemed completely used to dominating conversations. “So where are you from, really?” She folded herself onto the bed. 

“We were called Zenath.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

No, she didn’t suppose she would’ve. They had been very, very isolated. Zenath had set itself above all the other People, and they had all believed it because they prospered, and only now did she wonder whether the god had something to do with that. And these outsiders seemed even more friendly than most people she knew back home, and so she didn’t know what to think anymore. Or what to do now. 

“Do you not want to talk about it?” Anaren was more perceptive than she seemed. Lorun shook her head. It was all so confusing. 

“Then what do you want to talk about? I was ordered to be hospitable, after all,” Anaren said. Making fun of her brother seemed to be something of a hobby with this woman. 

Lorun’s thoughts drifted to the barely-seen workshop. “What is it that you do?” 

“Ooh, I’ll show you.” Anaren hopped up and led her back through the door. “I cut and carve stone, also make clay. Matter of fact, I was in the middle of this when…” She gestured to a wet-looking pot-shaped object on a small table in the back corner, next to a stone bowl of more damp clay. She considered for a moment, then smashed it down, added another handful, and started again. “Go explore. You won’t break anything.” 

Lorun wandered to the larger, heavier table in the centre of the room. Anaren had left tools scattered across it, chisels and picks and a saw, and a block of hard-fine stone with the corners sawed off that looked like it might become a bowl. There were some more finished bowls tucked under the table, and a globe of hard-crystalline stone that fit perfectly into her two cupped hands. 

Of course, this woman also cut the blocks their houses were built from, and it would be her job to cut the spirals into the cromlech and the barrows to protect the souls within. 

“How about you?” She turned back to look at Anaren when the woman asked. “What is it that you do?” 

“I was a soldier,” she answered. “And a dancer.” Admittedly, soldiering in Zenath was mainly guarding, and scarcely anything happened. Zenath’s reputation preceded them, she supposed. The guards on the north-east said there were sometimes others of the People by the pass there, but all she had ever encountered on the south side were her own people returning from the farms and some wild night-cats. Oh, and the bothersome eel-things that crawled from the sea. A sword still worked best on them, so the other part of soldiering was finding them in gutters and in gardens and at the base of the city wall and killing them for people. They weren’t really all that smart, although she would admit they were a bit scary and certainly venomous. 

Soldiering was her job, but dancing was her love. The city held festivals many times a year, and each neighbourhood had a dance every eighthday. She and the other dancers wore their good clothes and hung themselves with beads, and the clatter of wood and jet along with their singing was all the music they needed. They danced story-dance and free-dance, and she would always return to the south-east gate on firstday with her mind still in yesterday’s performance. 

A knock on the door startled her. Anaren strode over and pulled it open with clayey fingers. Anarax slipped in, looking significantly windswept. “Did you miss me?” 

“No,” Anaren said. “Well?” 

“Well what? Kaelin still likes me, if that’s what you’re asking. Wind’s dying down, too.” He looked over her shoulder at Lorun and grinned at her. “Hope she didn’t scare you too much.” 

“It was fine,” Lorun answered. 

Anaren cuffed her brother gently around the ear, smearing clay into his fur. “Shut up. I’m wonderful and you know it.” 

“She is,” Lorun supported. 

“Oh, really?” Anaren turned and grinned at her. “You want to stay with me?” 

Lorun nodded. It wasn’t as if she knew anybody else in the village, anyway. 

“Well… that solves that, I guess. But - you don’t have anywhere for her to sleep,” Anarax addressed his sister. 

“We could ask Ikarax if we can borrow-“ 

“Yeah,” he interrupted. The two of them headed out purposefully into the street, Anarax absently rubbing the clay off his face. 

“You come with us too!” Anaren called back to Lorun, who hurried to catch up. “We’re going to introduce you to Ikarax. You going to be around longer this time?” she turned and demanded of her brother. 

“Can’t, Tar’s ready to head out south tomorrow. What those people want with your balls…” 

“Hey, it’s probably something important and mystical. Don’t judge.” 

Lorun privately wondered if, between Anaren and Anarax, anybody else in the village needed another source of entertainment. They probably didn’t. But the two clearly loved each other anyway. 

She still didn’t know what her grand plan was. But that could wait for a bit. Right now, she had to meet Ikarax.


End file.
